poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker

~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~

my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically
unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt,
spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key,
worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too?

He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated,
helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated,
woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha,
poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average

everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices
howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time”

alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll
go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock

the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too

to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems

everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that!

harrumph!

BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...

Prologue: I'm wasted in my car, outside of his party, waiting until I'm sober enough to leave, and only a single streetlight illuminates my car enough to scribble down my thoughts as I watch him wonder out into the coming storm, perhaps looking for me, as I wallow in the dark,
feeding myself cigarettes.*


Shaker

Cliche but
These feelings are still in my palm, clenching seashells and breaking into bitter
brittle little bones to crack like the thunder outside my window.
White strikes against the dashboard
Sitting in my car,
Wondering how far I'll fall beneath you and
how long these clouds of rain will take to reach you.
But like I've said every time you never listened,
You'll walk right through them, right to them, never for a second ever needing to lead you to them.
Still you give me too much credit.
As much as you make me uneasy,
You make my job easy.
Flickering street lights, its dark, its early in the night.
I wish it was quiet.
But its never been silent here
The town shakes still, all night long, so tiring
The night shakes out still a car, cricket, or siren.


I stop here, its time to leave